


Comfort Hug #16: Welcome Home

by Crowley_Is_My_Copilot



Series: Comfort Hugs [16]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Found Family Vibes, Gen, Hugs, Reader-Insert, also i didn't know what to tag this as since it's solely about the character and pig, mentions of depression, no beta we die like men, not as emotionally heavy as other fics in this series though!, set sometime after techno's trail and before doomsday, sometimes you just want to hug a war criminal and that's valid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29329668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowley_Is_My_Copilot/pseuds/Crowley_Is_My_Copilot
Summary: A platonic Technoblade and Reader fic, for all your soft Techno needs.
Relationships: Technoblade & Reader
Series: Comfort Hugs [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/391891
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Comfort Hug #16: Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> *disclaimer: i started this series as a way to work out some issues and bring myself comfort and decided to share it. this one is a little weird but i wanted to do something for canon techno since that character has brought me a lot of comfort in a short amount of time during a period where i'm struggling a lot. it's a little disjointed but i tried.

It’s hard to feel as though you belong.

You had travelled so far, trying to find a place to settle down, somewhere to stay, but each place has pushed you out. You’re not on their side, not a part of whatever community or government they’ve set up, no matter how hard you try to help, try to be kind to them. When you were little, you’d share your lunch with the other kids and then they would run off to play, leaving you alone. You never were sure how to make friends, never sure where you fit into their pretend hierarchy.

And now you don’t know where you fit into the real hierarchy and it makes your chest ache.

The wind picks up, whipping your clothes around and making the tip of your nose twinge with the cold. You rub it with the back of your hand and lower your head as the first few flakes of snow begin to fall. This far into the arctic, if you don’t find shelter soon, you’ll be stuck out in the storm and that’s a recipe for disaster or at the very least frostbite.

Ahead, the faint light of a lantern cuts through the growing dark, outlining a small house.

You hesitate, wondering if it’ll be like every other time you’ve come some place new. Perhaps it’s better to find shelter some place else than feel the disappointment of realizing you don’t fit in, that you don’t belong. But it’s getting colder and you find yourself trudging through the snow and up the stairs. Shivering, you reach out and knock on the door.

From inside you can hear a low voice and movement. Your heart starts pounding in your chest. The door opens. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust well enough to be able to see; the figure is tall, tall enough to block the light from inside the cabin and tall enough to have to bend slightly to fit through the doorway.

Once you can see, your heart stills in your chest and your mouth goes dry.

You thought it was a man but now you realize you were only half right; he stands like a man, is dressed like a man, and is looking down at you with human eyes but that’s where the similarities stop. His ears stick out from the side of his head, the tip of one folded over slightly, and his nose is more of a snout. Tusks stick upwards from his bottom jaw, mouth pulled into a frown.

 _A pig_ , you think, and just manage to choke down the nervous laugh that threatens to bubble up. _He’s a giant pig._

“—heh?”

The noise is high pitched, confused, and doesn’t seem quite fitting for someone like him.

Looking up, you wonder what to say but before you can, he speaks again.

“Uh uh. No. Not again.”

The door slams shut in your face.

That feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. Once again, you’ll have no place to go, once again you’re being turned away. Wind whistles past you, stopped slightly by the porch’s roof. You’re tired and you can feel the hot pricks of tears in your eyes. You should leave, find somewhere else, but you can’t bring yourself to.

Sinking down, you huddle up on the porch, pulling your jacket around you as best you can. It’s still cold, still lonely, but the wind isn’t as strong and the light from the cabin makes you feel a little less alone. You rest your forehead against your knees and prepare to wait out the night.

The sound of the door opening jerks you awake and you shake off a thin layer of snow as you look up. The pig man stands looking down at you, a scowl on his face that seems more annoyed than angry.

“Alright, get up. I don’t want you freezin’ to death on my porch. Do y’know what that’d do for my property value?”

You blink up at him.

“Well, come on. I’m not gonna stand here all night.”

Your feet slip on the ice as you scramble to stand. He steps aside so you can enter the cabin. Immediately it’s warmer and you breathe a sigh of relief, rubbing your hands together.

“Just don’t touch anything, you got it? I don’t want you messing up my stuff,” he says.

You nod.

“I won’t,” you say, almost saying more but stop.

He’s imposing in looks with scars that speak of either battles fought or dangers encountered but the way he moves around the room, muttering under his breath, makes him seem awkward.

“Sit down, you’re making me nervous just standin’ there.”

You follow his gaze towards a chair in the corner and sit with a bit of a thud.

“You’re not some kind of spy, are you?”

“I—I’m not a spy.” There’s a hint of incredulity in your voice.

“Sounds like something a spy would say.”

You stare up at him, wondering what you could say that wouldn’t sound like something a spy would say and come up blank.

“Okay.”

“Who are you with?”

He moves to stand in front of you, hooves clacking against the wooden floor.

“With…?” you ask, sinking down in the chair a little.

“Yeah, with.”

A tightness grips your chest. You’re not with anyone; that’s why you’re out here, by yourself, trying to find some place to stay for the night, some place you can be safe.

“I’m not with anyone,” you say, voice cracking a little.

“Heh?” The noise of confusion escapes him again and then he narrows his eyes, considering you. “What do you think about government?”

“Uh…” The image of being turned away by someone who claimed to work for the president of one of the places you had tried to seek shelter in flashes in your mind. “I can’t say I’m much of a fan.”

“Wonderful, that’s perfect. I won’t have to kill you,” he says, voice deadpan.

You let out a laugh, nervous, and shift in your seat.

“That wasn’t a joke, I really would have to kill you.” He sits down, the chair near the fire creaking slightly under his weight, long legs stretched out. “So can I ask why you were knockin’ on my door in the middle of the night? It’s just a little bit suspicious, if you know what I mean.”

Looking down, you twist your hands in your lap and shiver. It’s warmer in here but the cold still lingers, the skin of your nose and hands feeling like someone had pricked it with tiny needles.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” you say after a moment. “I just saw the house and—”

The words die in your mouth. It’s too hard to talk about, that feeling of desperation to find somewhere you’re wanted, the fear that you never will, the pain when you’re turned away after trying so hard.

His features soften, a look of resignation and then sympathy crossing his face.

“They exile you, too, huh?”

You don’t have to ask who ‘they’ are.

“No but they said I couldn’t stay, that I had to find somewhere else.”

“Typical,” he says with a snort. “You’re lucky they didn’t try to execute you or steal your horse.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

“I don’t have a horse.”

“Well, you know what I mean.”

Silence falls in the cabin as you stare at your hands, the pig man staring out the window as if he was remembering something unpleasant. There’s so many questions you want to ask but you can’t find the words. Instead you rub your hands over your arms, trying to remove the chill from where its settled in your bones.

“You still cold?”

“A little,” you admit.

He gives a sigh that borders on a snort and stands, grabbing a log from the pile next to the fireplace, setting it across the flames. Tiny embers jump up and after a moment, the log catches fire, spreading both warmth and light into the room.

“No wonder. You have nothing, huh? No gear, that jacket’s barely enough to keep you warm.”

It’s not harshly said, that sympathetic look from earlier now creeping into his voice.

“I did but—I thought I had found a friend so I gave them most of my things. I just wanted to help,” you say and this time you can’t stop the tears from leaking out of the corner of your eyes. Hastily, you wipe at your face.

“See, that was your first mistake, trustin’ other people.”

The way he says it makes you think he’s speaking from experience, an undercurrent of anger. It makes you cry harder despite your efforts not to. He sighs and the creak of the floor and the way a shadow falls across you tells you he’s standing in front of you.

“Oh, don’t do that,” he says and crouches down in front of you. “I’m not good when people cry, okay?”

Wiping your face on your sleeve, you give him a shaky smile.

“Sorry.”

“Apologizin’ for cryin’ is almost as bad as the cryin’,” the pig man says, reaching out to awkwardly pat your shoulder and for the first time you realize that he has hands. It wasn’t something you had paid attention to at first. You blink at him as he settles back on his haunches. “Look, it’s great you wanted to help someone you thought was a friend and I think you should keep doing that except when it’s gonna hurt you. I mean, you could’ve frozen death out there. It’s okay to think of yourself first.”

You want to ask him why he cares when he had shut the door on you at first but it had only been at first. He had come back to let you in and you think you know why. Even crouching down the way he is, he’s still taller than you and you have to rise out of the chair a bit to hug him, throwing your arms around his neck. He stiffens.

“You remember when I said ‘hey don’t do that’ about the cryin’? Let’s go ahead and add hugging to that,” he says in a low monotone that you can feel rumble in his chest. Despite the words, he doesn’t push you away, instead patting your back and letting you rest your head on his shoulder until the tears stop for good. “Alright, alright. You’re fine. You can stop now.”

A small laugh escapes you; you don’t mean to, but there’s something about the resignation in his voice, the protest even as he hugs you back, that strikes you as funny.

“See, if you’re gonna laugh, I’ll kick you out.”

An apology almost makes its way past your lips but you stop yourself.

“Thank you,” you say, pulling away, and mean it.

“Ew, gratitude,” he says as he stands but there’s a curl to his mouth, half hidden behind the tusks, that belies the words. For a moment he looks at you and then shakes his head, the braid of pink hair moving as he does. “Alright, fine. You can stay here.”

You perk up.

“Really? For how long?”

“Just until the snow clears, then you’re out, got it? And you’re payin’ rent.”

Smiling, you don’t mention how in the arctic the snow never clears or how you have nothing to pay rent with; he already knows.

“I got it.”


End file.
